


Is that a Gun in Your Pants, or Are You Just Happy to See Me? (It’s a Gun.)

by Mixchey



Category: BBS - Fandom, Banana Bus Squad, gbg
Genre: Alternate universe bar/pub, Angst and Tragedy, Bad Flirting, Bartender Smit, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Don’t mess with Swagger and Fitz, Enemies to Friends, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, I’m testing new writing styles, John is a sly bastard, Mafia Member John, Minor Original Character(s), Octavia is here too, Possible Character Death, Shitty jokes and whiskey shots, Smit is oblivious, Smit just wants him to shut up, Theyre only in one scene, krii7y - Freeform, might edit later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-26 13:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17142563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mixchey/pseuds/Mixchey
Summary: Smitty just wants to finish this stupid shift and go home and sleep, but when a mysterious man stumbles through the door with a gun in his pocket, he realizes that it will be harder than he thought.ORBartender!Smitty and Mafia Member!John’s lives are thrown together on one rainy afternoon.





	Is that a Gun in Your Pants, or Are You Just Happy to See Me? (It’s a Gun.)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: All characters, places, events, and dialogue are used in a fictitious manner. In no way do we portray these personas as perfect replicas of any real person mentioned. This is a work of fiction that was created for entertainment purposes only. DO NOT take it literally.

If someone were to come up to Jaren and tell him that he would be working at a run-down bar after high school, he would laugh in their face and shove their shoulder. 

How could someone’s lifelong dream be mixing and serving drinks? Especially in an abandoned bar on the outskirts of the city? Not Jaren, that’s for sure. 

He despises the wretched smell of alcohol, it’s like walking into a nail salon and sniffing a bottle of rubbing alcohol. And it is too bitter! Every time the boy had a sip, his face would scrunch up in disgust the vile mixture would be poured down the nearest sink. 

Although his parents occasionally drank, Jaren stayed away from it like it was the plague. But being a high school student, It was hard to stay away when all your friends called you a ‘pussy’ for not getting drunk in the park. He needed better friends. 

Being a bartender wasn’t his ideal choice, no way in hell was it his first choice, but life passed by faster than he would’ve liked, and graduation day was right around the corner. And, before he knew it, his name was called and a diploma was shoved into his hands. A course of screams and cheers from friends and family rang in his ears, bringing a watery smile to the boy’s face. 

The night went by in a flash, and friends clutched onto each other while parents took pictures to commentate the moment. It was an emotional night, to say the least. But as it ended, talks about future goals and plans for life after high school begun to surface, and Jaren wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to face it all - reality and the responsibilities that came with being an adult. 

And unlike his friends who packed their bags and went off to university, Jaren was lost. 

But instead of sitting his room and waiting for an idea to pop in his head, Smitty decided to enroll at his local community college, hoping that a hobby or career path will pique his interests along the way. 

If all else fails, he can be a bartender or stripper, something he would often joke about with his friends at the time. 

And while he did have good role models to rely on, including a famous interior designer for a mother and a local pharmacist for a father -, none of those factors cleared the boy’s anxieties or questions about the future - his future. 

Despite working around the clock, the Smiths noticed their son’s reluctance and suggested that he pick up a part-time job to help ease his mind and earn some extra cash, but Jaren knew they had other intentions. They wanted him to stop making videos on that ‘silly video site,’ and do something with his life, which he can’t blame them for enforcing. 

His Youtube channel hadn’t skyrocketed as he hoped, so one Saturday afternoon, Jaren decided to listen to his parent’s advice and delete the channel and all the possibilities and opportunities that came with it. 

With a clear goal in mind, Jaren began the search for a part-time job but finding a job was harder than he anticipated. 

He spent weeks interviewing for different companies and fast-food chains, hoping that someone would hire him, but every day was the same: he would come home with downcasted eyes and a heavy heart, informing his parents on yet another failed interview. 

As the sun rose and fell each day, Jaren was becoming hopeless. He visited every retail store, fast-food joint and coffee shop in the area, but was declined and sent out the door. 

Jaren sighed and took a bite of his blueberry muffin, hoping the sweet taste will distract him from his troubling thoughts. He thought today would be different. He was sure of it when he found that job offering in the newspaper, 

He glanced across the street and saw a “now hiring!” sign hanging in a dusty window pane. It took him less than a minute to scrambled across the street towards the rundown building. While the overall appearance was worse for wear with cobwebs and suspicious stains stuck to the windows and a metal gate coated in a thick layer of orange rust blocked the front entrance, Jaren would take what he could get. 

After all, beggars can’t be choosers, or whatever the saying was. 

The boy shoved the remaining parts of his muffin into his mouth and opened the metal gate, which creaked under contact. 

He walked inside and rested his hand on the door, hesitant to step inside. 

The scratched oak boards squeaked underneath white converse and a clock echoed throughout the room.

Arched eyebrows raised in confusion. There was an open sign hanging on the store, yet the room was empty. Not a person in sight. 

Maybe it was due because of the unwelcoming atmosphere and bland and outdated interior.

It was crowded, to say the least, and there was little wiggle room between the tables and the bar counter. The center of the room was filled with wobbly metal tables and chairs. Jaren figured that the person designing the room had randomly placed all the furniture and called it a day. 

He glanced over at the wooden booths pressed up against the wall, decorated with red cushions that were torn at the edges. 

A long wooden counter with a steel countertop with a small sink stretched along the adjacent wall. A colourful assortment of liquors neatly lined on glass shelves. 

“Um, hello? Is anyone here?” He called while squeezing past a table. Too nervous to stand, Jaren rested his arms on the edge of the bar counter.

His head perked up to the door in the back corner of the room, which Jaren assumed an office or storage room. The doorknob jiggled once. Twice. A third time before the door creaked open and a head popped out. 

Jaren tilted his head to the side and watched as an elderly man with stern brown eyes and short grey hair strolled over and set a heavy box onto the counter. 

He rubbed his hands on his blue apron and smiled apologetically, smile lines prominent. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, it’s no problem! I was just wondering where your manager was? I noticed the sign in the window and wanted to see if I could talk to them?”

“Well, I’m just the man you’re looking for,” the man said and opened the lid of the box, grabbing several shot glasses and placing them underneath the bar.

“R-Right,” Jaren stammered with flushed cheeks and awkwardly stuck out his hand, “I - I’m terribly sorry for being so rude. I - my name is Jaren Smith.”

“Xin chào, Mr. Smith. My name is Eddie Nguyễn,” the man, ‘Eddie’, said and bowed his head slightly, using both hands to shake Jaren’s extended one.

“Uh - hello! It’s nice to meet you, Eddie.”

The two delve into a long conversation that was only supposed to take thirty minutes at the most, but Eddie was an engaging man who has witnessed a lot in his lifetime, and Jaren was intrigued and also too embarrassed to thank the man for his time and excuse himself. So he sat with his chin in his palm, listening to the man’s journey of migrating from Vietnam to Canada in the early nineties with his grandparents.

And Jaren sat and listened. His hands mindlessly playing with the hems of his sleeves, the underlying fear of being rejected and shoved out the door clouding his brain. 

But the brunet was pleasantly surprised to feel a wrinkled hand pat his back and hear the phrase “you got the job.” After thanking the man with wide eyes and shaking his hand a little too hard, Jaren strolled out the door with a blinding smile.

He was exhilarated, to say the least. The feeling of accomplishment and the thought of “holy fuck, I did it,” followed him out of the bar and down the street.

The brunet had to resist the urge to laugh and cheer while walking into his house that day. And when his parents noticed their son’s sudden change in behaviour and asked about his day, he jumped out of his seat and flailed his arms around, explaining how he got a job. 

But that was two years ago and things change - people change. 

Jaren remembers receiving the news that Eddie had an unexpected stroke and died moments before the ambulance arrived. He remembers feeling numb, like a black hole formed in his chest and swallowing his emotions while. The grief and shock had not registered for the first couple of days, he went through life completely calm and normal. He didn’t know what to do or how to feel, but while studying for an upcoming test on Tuesday night, that’s when reality punched him in the face. He remembers all of the emotions tackled him, manifesting their way into his heart. Anxiety, dread, sadness and grief. All of it clouded his brain. He knew something wasn’t right. A piece of him died that day. That day, Jaren lost a friend, someone he could rely on - a mentor. A family member. Jaren lost someone that day and didn’t know what to do. 

But life must go on, and Jaren had no time to mourn over his loss, so he shoved down all the emotions as far as he could and focused school and work. 

After the funeral, the bar was auctioned and sold to Nolan Gorman, a newly-settled businessman who left his hometown in Brazil and moved to Canada with his daughter for a better life. 

Jaren remembers the man strolling in one day while he was cleaning the tables. The man had dark brown skin, thick eyebrows, and light brown eyes. His dark hair was styled into a temple fade, which met with the stubble on his chin. A bowler hat tight in his grasp. The man was dressed head to toe in steampunk attire that must’ve cost a fortune and the contracts to the bar rested in his other glove-covered hand. 

Jaren was surprised and skeptical to see a new person come and take Eddie’s place, but the bar would fail if he didn’t, so Jaren cut his losses and gestured the man over. 

A thunderous roar snapped the boy out of his dream-like state. He must’ve dozed off again, Jaren reckoned and silently nagged himself for taking a nap in the middle of his shift.

Thankfully, Nolan wasn’t there to wake him up and scold him for it. Jaren sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the memory slowly fading away as he turned to stare out the window. 

It had been five months since Eddie’s passing, and Jaren had to adjust to the change. It wasn’t easy, especially when he had to return for the spring semester - his final semester before he would transfer to some university up north. He hadn’t decided yet. 

Grey clouds loomed overhead, blocking out the familiar blue skies and blazing sun, something he learned to appreciate and love over time. 

While Jaren didn’t mind the cold, he grew tired of the dreary weather that followed every winter, the snow and decreasing temperatures. He wished winter would end and summer to begin, missing those warm summer days where the sun beat down on his ivory skin and small gusts of wind blew through his brown curls.

He rested his head in his palm and watched as silver raindrops drummed against the window and seeped into large puddles on the pavement.  
Hurrying figures shuffled by with umbrellas and briefcases in hand, occasionally bumping into one another. Every once and awhile, curious eyes would glance through the window and met Jaren’s uninterested gaze, while others ignored the building completely. 

Across the street rested an alleyway where kids would laugh and play, raccoons searching through old garbage bins and teenagers smoking cigarettes. It was quite a popular spot to hang out with no authority figures around to scold them for being too loud or obnoxious. Sometimes Jaren would see one of the owners from the neighbouring shops go outside and yell at the kids for being too reckless and bothersome, which was stupid, in his opinion.  
Just let kids be kids, he thought to himself. 

And today, those same children were wrapped in thick cotton layers, splashing around in the muddy puddles and chasing over another. 

Jaren smiled and turned away from the window. The booths and tables were empty, and the newly-hung picture frames adorned the walls. Pictures of him and Nolan, him and Eddie, and even some customers. 

Pale fingers tapped against the counter and brown eyes blinked slowly. Jaren was anticipating the end of his shift. He had important things to do, like watching Netflix and finishing up any homework he forgot about the week before. 

He stifled a yawn at the thought and rubbed his bloodshot eyes, fighting the urge to bury his head in his arms a take a well-deserved nap. 

He knew he shouldn’t fall asleep again, Nolan can come strolling in any second! But the brunet dismissed the thought, too tired to care, and slumped against the counter, his legs aching from standing for too long.

His eyes closed. Joints loosening and breath evening out, the soothing chords of the jazz music flowed from overhead speakers. The rain patting against the window and the soft melody ease his worries and anxieties. As his mind drifted off into a sleep-like state, Jaren imagined curling up in his soft bed and fluffy pillows, a cup of hot chocolate resting on his nightstand.

The movement disappears when the door slammed open and a blast of cold air engulfed the room, erasing the once calming atmosphere 

Jaren jolted and snapped his head over to the doorway, a scowl perched on his lips. 

He prepared himself to see Nolan strutting to the counter with a radio in hand, dressed in his worn brown trench coat and striped bowler hat. But he was surprised to see a hooded figure stumbled inside and forcefully shut the door behind him. The man leaned against the brick wall and bowed his head. 

Jaren bit his lip, worried for the man’s wellbeing and his own safety. Did he just run a marathon or something?

The man rested his hands on his knees and exhaled slow, jagged breaths. He then peered out the window and mumbled something under his breath that Jaren couldn’t hear from his spot behind the counter.

His eyes widened when the hooded figure turned, revealing a very visible gun outline in his right pocket. 

Fuck that. 

Jaren traced the underside of the counter for the hidden knife that Nolan installed as an extra ‘safety precaution.’ Because anything can happen in Vancouver, especially when working in a failing bar in the ageing parts of the city. 

On any other day, he would roll his eyes and nag about wasting so much money on a knife, but at this moment, as his pale fingertips grazed against the rubber heel of the small dagger, Jaren silently thanked Nolan for being such a worrier. 

The knife weighed heavy in his hand, a reminder in case the situation got out of hand. 

Jaren peeked at the man, who still hadn’t moved from his slumped position against the wall. His wet clothes clung to his broad frame and water slowly dripped into a puddle on the floor. 

The room was silent. Jaren’s heart pounded against his ribcage and the ringing in his ears echoed louder than the rain pounding on the window. 

“Um … are you okay?” Jaren called. 

The man flinched, lifting his head. His eyes scanned the empty booths and bar stools for the source of the voice, taking in the antique furniture, rustic table tops, and abstract paintings. 

Then those pale blue eyes landed on him, and Jaren straightened. The man tilted his head and studied Jaren’s appearance, analyzing every expression and movement like a predator stalking its prey. 

Goosebumps littered on Jaren’s forearms, and a wave of nausea came over him as the pair of eyes slowly trailed up and down his body. An uncomfortable tension filling the room and paralyzing the two in place. 

The man smirked and pushed himself off the wall, strolling over to the counter. 

“L-Look, if you’re here for a cult meeting or something, you - you’ve come to the wrong place,” Jaren said and took a cautious step back when the man reached the counter. 

A deep chuckle. 

Pale, bruised fingers reached up and pulled the hood down, platinum blond locks flying in every direction. To Jaren’s surprise, the man wasn’t some creep with ageing features and bloodlust eyes. 

No, not even close. 

The man was young, only a few years older than the brunet. His eyes, which were a wild assortment of blue, green and grey, were sparkling with mischief. His brows were narrowed in contemplation and chapped lips pulled back into a smirk. A beauty mark resting just above the corner of his mouth. 

He looked … normal? Just another college student wandering in the pouring rain. 

Jaren reckoned that he could have possibly befriended the man under different circumstances, but as those multi-coloured eyes bored into his own, Jaren just knew that he can and will trust this man under any circumstances. 

He blamed the nagging voice in the back of his mind that was screaming to get away. Invisible red flags raising. 

Unlike most people who have entered the bar, the stranger’s face was composed, devoid of any emotion or thought. But his eyes stated otherwise.  
There was something else, something lingering. There must’ve been. Maybe he was analyzing this man way too much. Jaren blamed it on the lack of sleep last night. 

Still, he shuddered at the thought and tightened his grip on the knife, praying to whatever God there was that this man wouldn’t kill him on the spot. 

The man held out his hand. 

“The name’s John.”

Jaren raised his eyebrows and glanced down at the offered hand with wary eyes. Black polish and dried blood were caked under his sharp fingernails and his knuckles were painted in blue and black bruises. 

Did this guy murder people in his spare time? Why did he tell him his name? Jaren’s face twisted into a disgusted frown. He smacked the hand away.

“Didn’t ask.” 

“Now now,” John began, “what’s with the defensive tone, sweetheart? I’m just a customer, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Jaren didn’t believe him for a second. He debated stabbing his hand but quickly dismissed the idea. Too risky, especially when there’s a gun in his pocket. And ‘John’ towered over him, at least six feet tall. The brunet would be dead in a second if he dared to challenge the man. 

“You don’t look like a valued customer to me;” Jaren muttered and gestured to his outfit, “you came running in here as your life depended on it, and it’s not even Happy Hour.” 

“Alcohol is worth running down the street for.”

“Even in the pouring rain?”

A long sigh. “Look,” John began and glanced at the doorway worriedly as if someone was going to come barging in any second, “can’t a guy just come in for a drink? By the looks of it, you sure as hell need the money.” 

Jaren glanced around the empty bar and sighed, knowing Nolan would scold him later if he refused a customer. 

He placed the knife back into the compartment and meet the boy’s eyes. A smirk rested on his lips, and Jaren knew that he hated this man with every fibre of his being. 

“Fine,” Jaren said bitterly, not wanting to start any trouble by calling the man a fucking prick or pervert. 

“Thanks, darling,” John replied and pushed his wet bangs back with a ring-covered hand. 

Jaren scowled, wishing this shift would end already, and grabbed a shot glass from underneath the counter. 

“Alright, pick your poison,” he said while placing the shot glass in front of the blond. 

John hummed and glanced at the various bottles of alcohol lined up on the glass shelves. Each differing in size and colour. He scanned through the familiar brands as Jaren watched with impatient eyes. 

“I think I’ll have a - no, that’s not good. Um, how about a - no, that’s not good either. Maybe a—” 

“— Any day now would be great,” Jaren interrupted with a huff, impatiently tapping his foot on the ground. 

“Say that again and I’ll make you wait twice as long. I’m just looking for something to warm me up, if you catch my drift,” John said with a grin. 

Jaren’s cheeks flushed, and he crossed his arms. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You know because it’s raining outside,” John said and motioned towards the window, rain till pattering against the glass, “and because you’re leaning a bit too close to me.” 

“O-Oh. I - I’m sorry,” Jaren stammered, “I - I’m gonna go g-get a towel.” 

He mentally punched himself for being such an idiot and scurried to the back room. 

John smirked, satisfied, and rested his chin in his hand, deciding on a drink while the flustered boy searched the back room for a towel. Moments later, Jaren appeared with a fluffy white towel in hand.

John scoffed and took the towel, their hands brushing together in the process, and draped it around his shoulders. 

Jaren snatched his hand back and lowered his eyes to the floor. Man, he was bad at this. 

The room fell silent. John, who was too busy drying himself off, didn’t notice the boy’s red cheeks and wide eyes. 

“ … I - aren’t you going to take off your hoodie?” Jaren finally asked and pointed to the damp material. 

John raised a brow, following the boy’s hand and glancing down at the black hoodie, which was still damp to the touch.

He smirked. 

“You’re quite forward. If you want me to strip for you, at least take me to dinner first or get me blackout drunk. Whatever works.” 

Jaren choked, leaning down to control his breathing. His face fucking red. 

John chuckled and leaned closer to the brunet’s face, who tried his best to not make eye contact.

“Breathless already? It’s okay, you’re not the first.” 

“Can you fuck off?” Jaren spat, shoving the boy away from him. This day took a turn for the worst, and he was hoping Nolan would walk in and kick the blond out. 

He lowered his head, too flustered and annoyed to meet the other’s gaze. The sudden urge to choke the man in front of him was strong, but he knew he couldn’t get away with murder, he’d be arrested on the spot! 

John, seemingly unbothered by the situation, proceeded to take off his hoodie and place on the seat next to him. 

“Prude. Just give me a shot of whiskey and your number, then I’ll leave.” 

“No, just the whiskey. Take it or leave it.” 

John pouted but agreed nonetheless. The brunet nodded and sorted through the various bottles of whiskey behind him

“What brand?” 

“Jack Daniels.” 

He snorted. Basic bitch, he thought and grabbed the square bottle off the shelf, turning back to the blond. 

He uncapped the bottle and filled the glass halfway.

“There you go,” Jaren said and capped the bottle. 

John picked up the glass, silver rings clicking against the surface, and inspected the glass.

“Did you poison this?” He questioned and tilted the glass, watching the liquid swirl around. 

“Are you serious? You literally watched me - actually … yes. Yes, I did poison it because you are fucking irritating.” 

John shrugged and raised the glass to his lips, tilting his head and downing the shot. 

“Okay, you done? Good. Now leave.” Jaren demanded and pointed to the door. His patience was wearing thin, and he really didn’t want to murder someone today. 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t want me here.” 

“In your dreams, but fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

John wiped the corner of his mouth and pulled out a fifty dollar bill from his wallet. Jaren’s eyes widened, gawking at the man in front of him. 

Is he insane? Fifty dollars for a shot of crappy whiskey? 

“Are you fucking serious?”

“What?” John asked. 

Jaren widely gestured to the bill in his hand, too baffled to speak.

“What? I’m just leaving a tip since you treated me so well.” John said and placed the money on the counter. 

“I —” Jaren was bewildered. Who is this guy? He gawked at the blond, who took the towel off his shoulders and threw it to the Canadian. 

“And there’s more where that came from,” John winked. He stood and dusted off his jeans before scooping the hoodie off the stool. 

He strolled over to the door and paused, eyes glancing back to the boy behind the counter. He grinned. “See you around.” 

“Please never come back.” 

\--- 

John visited the bar again a month later, much to Jaren’s disappointment. 

It was late February and winter was finally coming to a close. Flowers bloomed underneath an endless blue sky. No grey cloud in sight. 

Jaren smiled and glanced away from the window. 

He stretched his legs across the leather seat and rested his back against the cool brick. Music from the overhead speakers filled the empty bar with a peaceful melody. 

When Jaren clocked in for his afternoon shift, he went into the back room and turned on the radio.

A few moments later, Nolan came strolling in, clutching onto yet another antique radio. 

He greeted the boy and sat down at a booth, gesturing for the boy to sit with him. Jaren obliged and sat across from him, glancing at the radio and toolkit on the table.

“Morning, Jaren! How are you?” 

“Nolan, it’s two in the afternoon.”

“Does it matter?”

“YES!” 

Nolan rolled his eyes and smiled, opening the lid of his toolbox. 

Jaren took that as a silent victory and leaned against the wall. While he never understood the purpose of fixing old radios, Jaren still enjoys watching Nolan gush about them during his breaks. 

When they first met, Jaren raised a brow at the hunk of junk in the Brazilian's grasp and asked about it.

That was how he spent an entire shift listening to a thirty-four-year-old man explain his passion for fixing the radio. Nolan even mentioned when he and this daughter, Ana, visited family back in Salvador a couple of summers ago.

Jaren rested his arm on the table as Nolan grabbed a screwdriver and opened the back of the radio. 

A bark snapped Jaren out of his daze, and he turned to see Octavia, a Rottweiler mix with black fur and dark brown eyes, nudge Jaren’s foot with her nose. 

He patted the seat next to him, and Octavia jumped onto the seat to nestle her head in the boy’s lap. 

“Remind me again why you keep that dog in the bar?” Nolan grumbled. 

“What do you mean ‘why’? She’s adorable, Nolan!” Jaren cooed, scratching behind the dog’s ear. 

“But she’s a troublemaker! Always barking and making a mess!” Nolan retorted, placing the screwdriver back onto the table. 

“That’s what dogs do!” 

“Yeah, well it’s annoying.” Nolan scoffed and fiddled with the heap of colourful wires inside the radio’s compartment. 

“You know you love her - don’t deny it.” Jaren insisted, and Octavia barked, tongue sticking out of her mouth. Nolan sighed, his lips raised slightly. 

“A-ha! What is that I see?” Jaren leaned across the table and pointed an accusing finger, “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a smile?” 

Nolan glared and waved his hand dismissively. “You’re dreaming, kid.” He ruffled Jaren’s hair. 

“Hey! Watch the hair, this takes hours to perfect, you know!” Jaren cried and smacked his hand away. 

Nolan chuckled. He stopped and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow. Then his tanned hands sorted through the wires on the table. 

Jaren huffed and settled in his seat, hand reaching down to brush through Octavia’s coat. 

The two fell into a comfortable silence. All that could be heard was Nolan rustling around in a toolbox and the soft instrumentals from the speakers. Jaren hummed, slumping against the cushioned seat. 

Then the door slammed open and heavy boots stomped against the wooden floorboards. 

Nolan pauses and glanced up to the doorway. A blond man with lightly-toned skin and blue eyes glanced around the bar. The black floral long sleeves loosely hung down his arms, the cuffs pushed back. A pair of distressed jeans to match. 

“I’m assuming that’s the man you told me about?” Nolan said and continued untangling the multi-coloured wires. They were fragile and required delicate care, or else they would rip in half. 

Jaren sighed. Of course, he’d come back. The brunet sat up and stretched his arms above his head.

Octavia whined and hopped off the bench, padding over to the newcomer who was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, I didn’t think he’d come back - well, I hoped that he wouldn’t,” Jaren said while climbing out of the booth. 

“Well, he’s clearly eager to see you again.”

Jaren scoffed, taking the time to dust the fur off his apron. “Of course he is. I’ll talk to you later, Nolan.” 

The man hummed in response and closed the radio’s back compartment, then turned it around to tweak with the dials on the front. 

Jaren strolled over to the counter and sat down on the stool farthest from John. The blond looked up to acknowledge the boy and glanced back down at the dog in front of him. He crouched down and slowly stuck his hand out. 

“I’d be careful if I were you, she’s hostile around new people,” Jaren warned, too lazy to get up and move the dog away. A part of him wanted to see the bastard get his face bitten off, so he rested his cheek in his palm and watched. 

“Oh please, every person in a ten-mile radius would jump at the chance to touch me,” the blond said matter-of-factly and scratched Octavia’s head.

Nolan chuckled, occasionally glancing over to watch the scene before him. 

“He’s almost as bad as you, Jare.”

The brunet gasped and turned his body towards the smug Brazilian. 

“Are you fuckin’ serious? There’s no way in hell I’m worse than that bitch over there.” 

“Are you sure? You can get pretty rowdy sometimes.” 

“Nolan, can you kindly fuck off?”

“I’ll fire you, don’t patronize me.”

John chuckled at the scene unfolding before him. Watching the brunet lose his patience was definitely more entertaining than killing his assigned targets. 

“Jaren huffed and mumbled something under his breath before turning back to the blond. 

“You aren’t very intimidating, Jare.”

“Shut up, I will stab you.” 

John chuckled and scratched Octavia’s ear. She barked and nuzzled her nose on the boy’s hand before waddling back to the booth. 

“Do it, pussy,” the blond challenged. 

“Wait till Nolan leaves. Can’t have any eyewitnesses.”

“I heard that!” 

“No, you didn’t! Stop dismissing my threats!” Jaren whined and slumped against the counter. 

Nolan laughed at the boy’s frustration but stopped when Octavia jumped onto his lap. He tried to push the dog away so he can finish his work, but she just nuzzled her head further into his side. 

John glanced at the booth.

“So what’s with the dog? Did you miss me that much that you needed a pet to fill the gaping hole in your heart? ‘Cause I’m flattered.”

The Canadian’s face flushed at the comment, still not used to the boy’s bold remarks. 

He scoffed. “Yeah right, I didn’t miss you. In fact, I was relieved when you finally left.” 

“You’re in denial.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

John chuckled and urged the boy to continue. 

“And that’s Octavia,” Jaren quickly changed topics before the boy could say anything else, “I found her in the alleyway with a wounded leg, so I brought her into the bar to patch her up.” 

“But he decided to keep her in the bar overnight. I almost had a heart attack when I walked in and saw her sleeping in the corner.” Nolan complained, glaring down at the dog in his lap.

“You would’ve had a heart attack either way. You’re old enough to be my granddad, Nole.” Jaren said and smiled when Nolan yelled another empty threat. 

John hummed and sat down next to Jaren, who groaned and tilted his body away. 

“Why are you here? Did you come just to bother me or does this visit serve some sort of purpose?”

John frowned and leaned against the counter. “What? I just wanted to see you, that’s all.”

“Real cute, really cute, John. Now, what do you want.” 

“Fuck you, whore. I’m just here for the whiskey.”

Jaren scowled and stood from his seat. Ignoring the boy’s protests and walking behind the counter. He grabbed a shot glass and a rag. 

John rolled his eyes and glanced to the booth where Nolan and Octavia were resting. Apparently, he was close enough to Jaren to give him a stupid nickname without repercussions, maybe he could give him one, too. 

“Got any plans for the weekend, Smitty?”

“... Smitty? That’s the best you got? And no, I’ll probably be working or watching Netflix,” Jaren responded while wiping the glass, tongue poked out in concentration. 

“You love it. You should repay me by going on a date or blowing me.” 

“Why would I do that? I feel like you are going to murder me or something. I get stalker vibes from you.” 

“Yes, I am going to spend the entire week watching your every move until I’ve your schedule from dawn to dusk. Then, when the moment’s right, I’ll strike.”

Jaren hummed and placed the shot glass on the table, tossing the rag into the sink. “Okay, just don’t do it on Friday because I have stuff to do.”

“Yeah, I’m ‘stuff’.”

“Will you knock it off, you bitch? I will actually stab you with a very sharp dagger.”

The American laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. He was finding too much enjoyment in pissing the brunet off. 

“Do it, pussy! Go ahead, I’m waiting.” 

Jaren’s eye twitched. Quickly, he crouched down and grabbed the knife resting on the shelf. Before John could even react, a knife was stabbed in between his fingers, grazing the edge of his fingers. 

“Ah! You fuck! You actually tried to stab me?” John pulled his hand away and clutched it to his chest. Jaren smiled and placed the knife down.

“I warned you, didn’t I?”

John huffed and shoved the knife away from him.  
“Yeah, well I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“Never underestimate me,” Jaren said and turned to grab to whiskey bottle off the shelf. 

John perked up when the familiar bottle was placed on the table. He clutched onto the shot glass on the table, rings clinking against the surface. “No promises, Smit.”

\---

The next time John burst into Jaren’s life. Literally. 

Jaren was polishing a glass when the blond stumbled through the door clutching his side and grunting.

“Hey, John - oh my fuck! Is that blood?!” Jaren shrieked and dropped the cup onto the floor. 

John collapsed on the table. His hair was wild, dishevelled as if someone ran their hands through it numerous times. Blood stained the ends. His black long sleeve was soaked, deep red stains costing his shirt like someone hit him with a paintball gun. A few cuts and bruises decorating the boy’s face, contrasting against the pale skin. 

He grasped the bottom of his shirt, lidded eyes staring for a moment. Unfocused. “Hm? Oh, this? Nah, it’s - it’s fine… I'm fine.” 

Jaren scurried over to the table and grabbed ahold of the boy’s wrists. John winced, and his knees wobbled. He stumbled and clutched onto the soft hands in his grasp. So soft. 

“Okay, you’re clearly not strong enough to walk to the back room, so let me …” Jaren trailed off, dropping his hands around the boy’s waist. John weakly chuckled and swayed. His legs were like jello. 

Jaren wrapped an arm around his waist and sling the boy’s arm over his shoulder. The two stumbled to the back room. Jaren’s hands clutched onto the material, making sure he doesn’t collapse onto the floor. 

He kicked the door open with his foot and leaned the blond against the counter. “Okay, okay… John everything's gonna be fine. I need you to stay focused, alright?” 

“As .. as long as you’re here to nurse me back to health.” John joked. His hands clutched the end of the counter, resting all his weight against the cabinet. 

Jaren shushed him and grabbed the First-Aid kit from underneath Nolan’s desk. He walked back over, hands clutching onto the sides of the plastic case.

Okay, okay. You can do this, Jaren. How hard can it be to treat someone’s wounds?

Jaren placed the kit on the space next to the blond, who was now sitting on the counter and opened the kit.

“John,” 

“Hm?”

“I need you to stay awake for me, so I know what happened and tend to the bruises,” Jaren said and brushed blond locks out of the boy’s face.

“Yeah, sure.. sure.” John straightened his posture, hazy eyes focused on the boy in front of him.

Jaren nodded and checked for any major injuries. Delicate hands ran over every spot. Brushing over swollen ribs and down bruised arms. 

“Jesus, you’re …”

“Fucked? Yeah, I know.” 

Jaren tilted the boy’s chin down, staring into his eyes to see if there were any signs of a concussion. Turning the boy’s head to the side, Jaren noticed the big bruise on his lower jaw. He cupped the boy’s cheek and sighed. 

“There are no signs of a concussion, but I still need to tend to the bruises and cuts on your face.”

John nodded, resting his hand atop the one cupping his cheek. “Yeah, they messed up my beautiful face.”

Jaren smiled and pulled his hand away to grab some cotton balls and rubbing alcohol. The smell was horrendous, he wanted to throw up into the nearest bucket. He shook his head and breathed in and out. 

Jaren dampened a cotton ball and pressed it against the bruised skin.“Who did, John? Who hurt you?”

John hissed and clenched his fists. “It’s nothing - fuck! Don’t - don’t worry about it. Fucking shit, that stings!”

Jaren smiled apologetically and cleaned the cut, wiping the dried blood away and placing a bandage on it.

“If it’s nothing then why did you come here?” 

John remained silent. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, mentally kicking himself for being such an idiot, and sighed.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Jaren scoffed and placed the cotton ball into the counter. “I doubt it.” 

John lowered his eyes, staring at his folded hands in his lap. They were covered in dried blood and bruises. He flinched at the familiar sound of punching and yelling. 

He shook his head. “Trust me. I - it’s quite hard to believe.” 

“Try me.” 

John’s shoulders slumped and he sighed. Jaren assumes that he wasn’t going to tell him and walked towards the door to grab a bag of ice from the bar.

“I’m in the mafia.”

—

Ever since John admitted his secret life to Jaren, the two had become closer. The two would stay in the bar till long after his shift ended, drinking and talking about anything and everything. 

Every day, Jaren found himself looking forward to working and talking to John. As much as he hated to admit it, he grew fond of the man’s questionable humour and witty responses, even the small actions that showed he cared about him.

One time, he came through the door with bagels and hot coffee, which was a blessing since Jaren hadn’t eaten that morning and got three hours of sleep because he was finishing a research paper. 

Another time, the blond brought some dog food and toys for Octavia, which Jaren still doesn’t understand, but he hugged the man anyway. 

It seems that every time he needed something or wanted to talk, John was always there in the blink of an eye. The thought alone made the boy grin into his coffee mug. 

And despite hating the man at first, Jaren learned to open himself up and talk about all the things stressing himself out in life, like college and his parents. John would always rest his chin in his hand and listen. 

He’s always there to listen. Jaren supposed that their lives have never been more intertwined than now, and a part of him is glad that he stumbled into the bar that day. 

—

Jaren woke up the next day with a smile on his face and excitement buzzing through his veins. 

Today’s the day, he thought and hopped out of bed. 

He pulled back his window curtains and sighed; the sun was shining, its rays stretching across the clear blue sky, not a grey cloud in sight. 

Today’s going to be a good day.

Jaren turned away from the window and scooped his clothes off the floor. He walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light switch. 

His dishevelled reflection gazing at him through the dirty mirror, curly hair tousled and pushed back, lips were pink and chapped from being chewed with his teeth - a nervous habit he’s been meaning to break. 

The boy rubbed his bloodshot eyes and shifted on the cold white tiles. The bitter artificial toothpaste invaded his taste buds, making the boy cringe and shove his toothbrush back into its holder.

Despite this, nothing could spoil his mood - not today. It’s Wednesday, his favourite day of the week - his magnum opus. 

Now Jaren isn’t a superstitious person. He never believed in aliens or ghosts, but there must be some mysterious force or higher up that explains the uncanny luck that accompanies him every Wednesday. No matter what time of day, something good has happened to him on. Whether it was finding five dollars on the ground, getting a free latte at Tim Hortons, or acing a test he didn’t study for, something good always happens on Wednesday’s. 

And today is an especially good day because not only did Nolan give him the afternoon shift, which is quite difficult to get when considering a failing bar, but the season finale of The 100 is airing that night, something he’s been anticipating it for weeks! 

So he kept his head high and smile bright as he grabbed his bag and skipped down the to greet his father in the kitchen and grab a piece of toast off the counter. He shouted goodbye over his shoulder and walked outside, closing the door behind him. 

The cold winter air nipped at tinted cheeks, and the wind blew his wavy hair in all different directions. Jaren brushed the hair back with pale fingers and strolled down the sidewalk. 

It was a calm morning in Vancouver, which seems like a rarity nowadays. Used minivans and work trucks occasionally drove down the street and towards the heart of the city, paying no mind to the brunet. 

Jaren shoved his hands in his pockets, regretting not taking a jacket with him, and ignored his chattering teeth and goosebumps forming on his arms. 

Ever since a certain bleach blond male entered his life, his life had flipped on its head. 

Instead of binge-watching Netflix till the sunset, Jaren had something to look forward to every day. Someone who made his life a little less boring, even if he’s a pain in the ass, Jaren appreciated the man’s company. 

He smiled to himself and kept walking down the street. 

Before he knew it, the familiar antique building came into view, little less than a block away. Jaren smiled softly, anticipation resting on his tongue. 

Maybe John will fall out of his chair again or piss Nolan off. Maybe he’ll even open up a little more - 

A clash jolted the boy out of his thoughts, making him stop in the middle of the sidewalk. A few annoyed passer-bys scoffed and walked around the boy. Jaren mumbled an apology under his breath and turned to the left, analyzing the abandoned alleyway. 

The old apartment complex’s brick walls stretched down for what felt like miles and shot up into the air like skyscrapers. Fresh vines trailed down the worn brick, like a protective curtain of green, and a few blades of grass sprung out of the cracked sidewalk. 

Funny, the Canadian swore he heard something, but all suspicion cleared when a rat scurried out of a pile of garbage. 

Jaren helped and stumbled back, watching as the grey ball of fur scattered down the narrow path. 

He exhaled slowly, fingers clutching onto the black satchel just a little tighter, and turned away from the alley. 

Stop being such a wuss, Jaren! 

The boy crossed the street, grabbed the key out of his bag and pushed the door open.

The bar was empty. All lights were turned off and chairs stacked upside down on tables. Jaren stepped inside and closed the door behind him, placing his bag onto the counter. 

“Octavia? You here?” He called, wondering if the dog was resting under one of the booths again. 

With no response, Jaren slipped on his vest and walked towards the back room to make sure everything was ready for the day.

A few minutes later the door opened, and Jaren smiled to himself. 

“It took you long enough!” He called while buttoning his vest, not bothering to peek his head out the doorway. 

No response, only the sound of boots walking along the floorboards. Jaren scoffed and grabbed a rag from the cabinet. 

“Seriously, John? You can’t scare me that easily!” 

More silence. 

Jaren frowned and closed the cabinet, waiting for the blond to jump out and laugh at him for being such a scaredy-cat.

“... John, this isn’t funny!” He snapped, voice wavering slightly. His stomach dropped at the lack of response, and the boy wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. 

The eerie silence was suffocating. 

Jaren cursed under his breath and walked out the door, preparing to scold the blond for his incapability to properly scare someone.

Once Jaren stepped out of the office and glared at the doorway. 

“Seriously, John? I hate you— ” 

The irritated response died on his tongue, pupils widening at the people in the doorway who were definitely not John. 

Two men dressed in head to toe in black were standing at the entrance of the bar. One man had a pair of sunglasses on and another had a … knight’s helmet? 

Jaren ignored that and instead focused on the sleek pistols in their hands, loaded and aimed at the Canadian’s head. 

His breath stuttered in his throat and a low buzz filled his eardrums. He can no longer hear the cars outside or the clock ticking on the wall. 

He swallowed his spit and stared. One of the men walked to the counter, hands gripped tight and dark brown eyes trained on the brunet. 

Jaren took a small step back and flinched when a booming voice echoed through the bar, like a bolt of lighting. 

“Don’t move!”

Jaren squeaked and straightened. He stuck his hands out in front of him. Who are these people? Why are they here?

His heart was in his throat. His feet were glued to the floor and his hands trembled violently. He was frozen. Scared for his life. Why won’t he move? He needs to do something or else he’ll be choking on his own blood in a few minutes. 

“Move another inch and I’ll put a fucking bullet through your skull!” 

Jaren jolted at the venomous tone and blinked back the tears. He silently obliged and watched as the other man standing in corner closed the blinds and locked the door. He was as tall as a skyscraper, blond hair gelled and combed back. 

Well, there’s goes jumping out the window and screaming as loud as possible. 

The tall blond pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and nodded towards the shorter male. A signal.

The man pushed forward until he reached the counter. He lifted his gun.

“Where’s Kryoz?”

“W-What?” 

“You heard me. You have ears, don’t you? You aren’t fucking incompetent!”

“I - I…” Jaren was lost. Who is Kryoz? He never met anyone named Kryoz before.

“Answer the fucking question!” Jaren flinched and shook his head. His mouth was dry, and the words wouldn’t come out. He was choking on his own tongue. 

The blond in the corner pushed off the wall, walking towards the two. “C’mon Swagger, calm down. This guy doesn’t know —“

Swagger snapped his head toward the blond, eyes narrowed behind the metal helmet. 

“Shut the fuck up, Fitz! He clearly does, you fucking retard! We’ve seen the bastard walk into the bar multiple times, so he’s lying!”

“That doesn’t mean —”

“No, I don’t care. Just keep your pretty mouth shut and follow Creamy’s orders!” 

The blond took a step back and nodded. Swagger turned back to Jaren and cocked the gun. “I’ll ask one more time. Where is Kryoz?”

“I - I …” Jaren couldn't speak. Believe it or not, it was hard to focus with a gun pointed in your face. 

Swagger raised the gun to the ceiling and fired a warning shot. The man’s patience was wearing thin, and Jaren didn’t know what to do. 

Jaren squeezed his eyes shut, and whimpered. His hands trembled and his knees wobbled. The ringing in his ears was unbearable, and hot tears poured down his cheeks. He was completely fucked. 

“I - I don’t know! I’ve never met a-anyone named K-Kryoz, I swear!” Jaren pleaded. 

Swagger grunted and turned back to Fitz. The two lowered their guns and stared at each other for a moment. 

The tension in the room could be cut with a sharp knife, and Jaren muffled his sobs with his hand. He needed to do something, but he couldn’t stop crying. He tried thinking of his parents and friends, but that made him cry harder. 

Fitz gestured the shorter man over, and the two harshly whispered to one another. Jaren wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and exhaled.

You can do this. You can do this, Jaren. If not for yourself, do it for your friends! Do it for your family! Do it for Nolan! Do it for … John! Do it for him. 

Jaren shook his head and looked around the bar for an escape route or weapon. The two in the corner deserted their guns on the table, loaded, and yelled in each other’s faces. 

He has a chance to get out of this while the two were arguing. His brain was screaming at him to move, run, scream. Anything that will get him out of this alive. 

Jaren’s eyes landed on the knife in the secret compartment. The knife! An invisible light bulb floated above his head. 

The boy leaned forward, flinching at the boys' conversation which was becoming louder each second. He huffed and slowly crouched onto the ground. Eyes level with the knife in front of him. His heart was pounding in his ears, his fingers and his toes. His breaths were shallow and fast, hands sweating bullets. 

Now or never. 

Jaren lunged forward and grabbed onto the knife’s handle. His fingers rubbing against the cool rubber and metal. 

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” 

“Swagger, don’t —”

BANG!

—

The two men long since left and Jaren was laying on the floor, shirt torn and soaked in blood, broken glass around him. 

The dagger resting on the other end of the bar, a fresh coat of blood staining the metal. The boy tried to crawl over and grabbed the knife, but his body gave out on him. Now here he was, resting behind the counter and bleeding out. 

He coughed, throwing his head back against the wooden floor to spit the excess saliva and blood mixture out of his mouth. He weakly lifted his head to glance at a framed picture on the wall. Eddy and Jaren were standing in front of the bar, hands on each other’s shoulders and smiles wide. 

His eyes stung, and warm tears rolled down his cheeks and onto his blood-soaked jeans. He sobbed and rested his head against the wall, wishing for the pain to stop already. 

Shuffling slightly, the boy winced and clutched onto his side. Shaky hands brushed over the bullet wound. 

Everything hurts, it hurts so bad. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he choked back another sob. Clutching onto his stomach, the boy laid into the floor. 

It had seemed like an ordinary day. It didn’t occur to me until later that people can die on ordinary days. 

—

John thanked the barista and grabbed the two cups of coffee before strolling out of the cafe and down the street. 

After finally getting a break from the mafia and long heists, the American was able to visit the run-down bar. 

It’s been a few weeks since he’s last seen Jaren, possibly even months, so he missed annoying the boy and hearing his laugh. 

The thought alone made the blond’s lips perk up, which only widened when he saw the bar in the distance. John hurried down the street and yanked the door open. 

He stepped inside, teasing remark fresh on his tongue. “Did you miss me —” 

The blond stopped in his tracks, eyes widened and jaw agape. His eyes couldn’t deceive him. 

The bar was destroyed like a tornado has swept through the tiny room and disappeared. Broken bottles littered the floor, some shards stained with a red mixture. 

Bar stools were tipped over and a few tables were destroyed as if someone threw it at a wall. The pristine bottles of alcohol that usually rested on the shelf’s behind the counter we’re all either cracked or a heap of glass shards. 

Two coffee cups slipped through shaky hands and onto the floor, spilling onto the floor.

John swallowed a lump in his throat and stepped further into the bar. “J-Jaren?” 

The bar was silent. Too silent. There was supposed to laughter, excited barks and crappy pop music played too loud. It was supposed to be full of life. But as he stood in the bar with no idea if his friend was okay or not, he knew everything was not okay.

“Jaren, where the fuck are you?” He yelled, hoping the boy was sleeping in the back room or hiding in a booth. 

Deep down he knew - he knew his friend wasn’t okay, but he hoped that he was, clinging onto the idea that his friend was alive and well, maybe hiding in the back room and stifling a laugh. 

Then he saw the bullet holes in the wall, and he knew that he wasn’t okay. 

John’s heart snivelled in his chest when the smell of copper hit his nostrils. It was hard to recognize at first because of all the spilled alcohol, but once he smelled it, he began to panic. 

“Jaren! Jaren, please say something!” He yelled, kicking a chair onto the floor in frustration and desperation.

“... J-John?” 

A faint whisper that had the American’s blood run cold. He snapped his head up to the counter. Of course, he would be there, dumbass!

He jumped over a table and ran behind the counter, stopping once he spotted the limp body on the floor.

Brown eyes slowly gazed up, and John collapsed onto the floor, clutching the brunet as his life depended on it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! What happened, Smit?!” John frantically took off the boy’s vest, apologizing when the boy whimpered, and threw it over his shoulder. 

His hands lingered over the wound on the Canadians side. He rubbed the boy’s side, too scared to move or breathe. John lowered his head, balling his hands into the material.

“J...John, I-I’m...” Jaren coughed, blood and saliva dripping down his chin and onto his hands. The boy was at his breaking point, John knew that, yet he was staring at the boy and trying not to cry.

He needs to move. Call the police! Wrap the wound! Anything! 

But he couldn't. Instead, John leaned forward and wiped the excess blood off the boy’s chin. Jaren smiled sadly. 

“Did I do this?” 

Jaren his shook head. “No… this isn’t your fault.” 

His voice was hoarse, quiet and weak. All the things he wasn’t. He wasn’t the Jaren he knew. The Jaren whose laugh would light up any room he stepped into. Whether he was laughing, screaming or crying, the boy was lively, expressing his thoughts and emotions through actions and facial expressions.

John rubbed his eyes raw, not wanting to cry in front of his friend who was bleeding out. Get it together, man! His head was going to explode any second, he could feel it. 

“It is. It is my fault, Jaren! If I never stepped foot into this bad, you wouldn’t be bleeding out on the fucking floor!” John screamed, tossing his hands in the air as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“It is my fault! It’s my fucking fault, but that doesn’t matter now because you’re dying and - fuck, I need to get you to a hospital!” 

Before John could get up and grab the phone in the office, Jaren clutched onto the boy’s wrist. John stumbled and looked down at the boy, terrified and confused beyond belief.

“John, it’s too late for me,” he said with a watery smile, “I’m losing too much blood.” The boy accepted his fate a while ago. When those two men stepped into the bar, he knew his life wasn’t going to be the same.

John sank to his knees and held the brunet’s hand, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No, let me call them. Please! Please, I know they can save you - I can save you!” The words flew out of the boy’s mouth faster than he could comprehend, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care because his friend was dying — he was dying because of him, and he couldn’t do anything.

“John—”

“No! I can’t let you die like this, Jaren. I-I can’t.” John sobbed, blond hair falling in his face. 

Jaren rested a hand on the blond’s face, brushing a tear off his cheek with his thumb. “John, you and I both know what’s going to happen. Just let me go.” 

“I won't - I won’t allow you to die like this! I won’t be okay without you, I need you!” He squeezed the boy’s hand, tightly, not wanting to let go. 

“Fuck, I can’t just leave you here to die. Please, just let me help you!”

“I - I know,” Jaren croaked, his chest heaving and breath slowing, “you - you know what’s funny?”

John placed a hand over Jaren’s, closing his eyes and leaning into the boy’s touch. He sniffled and stared down at the brunet, who was smiling softly. 

“Y-You being funny? In your dreams.” 

“I… I need you, too.” 

The Canadian slowly blinked, eyes dazed and unfocused. Black dots started clouding his vision and John’s voice was fading.

John opened his eyes, watching as the boy slumped against the wall. His eyes closed and his breathing evened out. 

“J-Jaren?” 

He shook the boy’s shoulder.

“Jaren! Jaren, say something.” The blond pleaded. He scrambled forward and cupped the boy’s cheeks, tilting his head. 

“Cmon, open your eyes!” John shook the boy again, harder this time. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye, not yet. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

“Move your hands! Do something, you f-fucking asshole!” He choked, tears welling in his eyes. A part of him deep down knew the boy was gone, he just refused to believe - refused to accept it. 

The blond gathered the boy’s limp body in his arms and muffled his sobs into the boy’s hair. 

This isn’t real, this isn’t real. He’s dreaming, he has to be dreaming! There’s no way Jaren died because of him. He shook the boy’s body again, violently this time. No response. 

John vent forward rested his head against the boy’s forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. His breaths collecting into shallow gasps.

“Please don’t leave me alone.” 

John laced their fingers together. Warm hands against cold and clammy. Once a lively person turned into a lifeless body, taken from his grasp too soon. 

He clenched his fists. Whoever did this was going to pay. He would make that person’s life an endless hell, nothing short of misery and despair. A new feeling washed over him, and the boy kneeled, knowing what he needed to do. 

The blond leaned down and pushed soft brown locks back. He placed a soft kiss on the boy’s forehead and stood up. 

He scooped the bloody dagger off the floor and walked to the front entrance, broken bottles cracking underneath his feet. 

He paused in front of the door, resting his hand on the glass. Once he left, he would never be able to come back. Never see brown eyes light up in excitement or feel soft hands wrap around his shoulders. Once he left, he’d be saying goodbye to his best friend. 

John glanced back at the counter where the lifeless body of his best friend once was, hidden from the world. Everyone outside was oblivious, walking past the bar and down the street. His parents wouldn’t know for days that their son was gunned down at work. His professor wouldn’t know why he stopped showing up to his lectures. His friends would spam his phone with messages and texts asking where he’d be. 

“I’ll find them, Jaren.”

He tightened his grip on the knife and pushed the door open. The cold air nipped at tear-stained cheeks and wind flowed through bleached hair. 

“I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry this took so long to write! I originally started this back in November, but then I went out-of-state to visit family for Thanksgiving. And after that, I had to study for finals, but I’m back and ready to write more stories. (I already got a new idea in the works, so expect to see that very soon.)
> 
> —
> 
> And here is the amazing fanart that inspired this fic: 
> 
> https://fzzzzzzzz.tumblr.com/post/179470083020/我干脆不要画画改行去当雷公


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